It is late,
too late into March
when it begins to snow
as if the winter never went away.
I ascend towards the sun,
drawn to its promises of warmth,
and make a nest in my bedroom,
a nest of my comforter and myself.

Will I actually put any poetry to words?
Who knows but Time and the cold?
What I do know is that I am sitting here,
wearing a cardigan
molded into a woolen caress,
while a record of European café music spins
and a candle filled with a lilac’s essence blooms.

So easily,
I can imagine a lover’s hand
trail down my body,
beginning with the skin above my ear,
sinking down until the hell of my foot
feels desired.

Without strain,
a can conjure up a lover
dancing at the edge of the mattress,
their hands above their clouded heads,
their eyes closed.
They see without seeing.

This is the kind of snow
that coaxes hopes
through tear-stained lips
in the form of a drowsy sigh.